


Myths from the Realms of a Vengeful Goddess

by Sentlett



Series: Vengeful Goddess Mythos [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Gen, Multi, Mythology - Freeform, assorted stories, female Death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:54:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27626390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sentlett/pseuds/Sentlett
Summary: This is a collection of myths from another Realm, another collection of dimensions really. They are in pairs, the myth held by the mortals, and the true story handed down from the CONCEPTS that run the world. These are the stories from a world ruled by Concepts, maintained by people.
Series: Vengeful Goddess Mythos [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2019830
Comments: 6
Kudos: 23





	1. The Origin of the Grim Reaper: The Myth

## The Myth:

In a wood of wisteria, a farmer cried,

In a wood of wisteria, a farmer died.

For in that wood he met a traveler,

who offered him aid for she whom he cried for.

"Bring me to her, and give me days three,

Should she remain, give me just seed,

Should she choose to peacefully expire,

A concession I will require,

And should she exit wracked with pain,

A boon without resurrection is what you shall gain.

One last request, should you look upon my face uncloaked,

In the place where you stand, shall your last breath be breathed.

And hear this well, everything requires a price,

And many a price is too much to pay."

The farmer accepted, and the traveler locked themselves in with the daughter.

Each day the farmer's daughter grew better and happier,

Till the last day, she slept without reason for her passing.

The farmer grew angry,

Asked what had been done,

The traveler replied,

"She hath gone to my garden.

She asked all I knew, and much more I could say,

And when at the end she asked me to stay,

I replied that I couldn't, for there are fields I must reap,

And so she wondered why she might not assist in my sweep,

I agreed such that she asked, not that I wished,

And so she went on to a place you can't reach."

The Farmer, in his rage, latched onto the traveler,

And in his anger knocked off their hood.

No one knows who lay under that cloth,

But everyone knows what happened to the Farmer.

For in the wisteria wood, the traveler appeared to a farmer who cried,

And in the wisteria wood, the grim reaper accepted a farmer who died.


	2. The Origin of the Grim Reaper: The True Story

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For there is truth in every myth, but many times they do not tell the full story.

## The True Story:

Death sighed as she tightened the cloak she had borrowed from her papa against the chill in her section of the Higher Planes' air. She had been working all day scything the grass to make room for a new flowerbed for the belladonna and foxglove seeds mother had created for her. Death loved gardening. It had started as her thumbing of the nose to her twin for making her existance harder. But she eventually found she liked seeing the progression they made from little shells of potential to beautiful blooms praising the bright ball of hellfire she had stuck in the sky to feed them. And when they finally withered and eventually returned to her, ready to repeat the cycle under her eternal care. She supposed that it was somewhat symbolic of her, but she didn't really care. They were pretty, they smelt good, and it gave her something to do between stopping her brother from screwing up the balance by making mortals hate him rather than her. And honestly, that was one of the worst parts of her job. Between the joys of gardening and the time she spent following her father about on his job, she was stuck babysitting her twin brother, Life.

Life was, for all intents and purposes, the worst. He was rude, annoying, and always had some plan in his head to make someone's time experiencing his concept the worst. She daily questioned why many people thought she was the one that people should be ignoring, especially since she was the one who stopped the suffering. Maybe it had to do with her sibling, Suffering, and how they tended to be the one to hand people off to her nowadays when she was out soul collecting, that is. The mortals probably thought that they were the same person, considering that Suffering also followed papa around a lot. Either way, Death was resigned to being at best ignored and worst feared and hated. It sucked, but it was somewhat made up for in the faces of those she saved from her brother. Those looks of sheer gratitude made her existence worthwhile, even if the events that led to them were anything but cheerful. The number of times she caught a soul under a bridge when she had been too late stopping Life's antics were testament to that. And yet, none stayed, and despite the time she spent gardening with her mother, her mother was busy creating concepts, ideas, and things, inspiring the creation of more and more things. And her father, while she loved him, was somewhat aloof. He showed that he cared and brought her on his trips. He gifted her with objects to help her tasks, a scythe that cut souls from their shells as quickly as grass from its roots, a cloak to keep the chill of the crossroads she tended to, and the eyes of those she follows away. But he was also busy, maintaining the balance by taking all but LIFE's toys and creating absence to balance his partner's existence.

DEATH was lonely. The sparse time she spent with either parent was not enough for the time she spent alone or in the horrid company of LIFE and his friends, SUFFERING, ILLNESS, and the entirely stuck up BEAUTY. Such time was worse than being alone, for none of her work was acknowledged by LIFE or his friends. They just went on to the next, ignoring the being that had been pained by their games.

But that was neither here nor there. There was work to be done, and let none think that Death was a slacker. She pulled up the cloak's hood and walked back to the area she had marked out for the new beds. She had just pulled her scythe back to remove another strip of grass when she felt a sucking sensation on the top of her head, and she was suddenly in a dark forest.

In front of her was a man shivering in a threadbare tunic. She tilted her head a bit and raised her farming implement upright. She had been summoned… Well, first things first, what does she look like. She looked downwards and saw she was still in the cloak, although the edges had been tattered a bit when she had been pulled out of the higher plane. Her usually smooth curly auburn hair was a greasy raven's feather black that she could barely see inside of the hood. In a puddle, she saw that her entire face was shadowed by the massive hood, causing her glowing blue eyes to shine from the darkness like twin lighthouse beacons on a foggy night. She was at least a foot taller than usual, but otherwise, she couldn't get a good read on her form other than it was rather different than her usual one. Apparently, her summoner was expecting death to be tall, dark, and creepy like everyone else. _Joy._ She sighed and asked,

" ** _Why have you called to me?"_** in an echoing, scratchy voice that was not her own typically calming, willowy one.

Kaarle Foster stared at the figure looming over him in the clearing. He didn't know what to expect when he had tried to call for someone to help his daughter. What he hadn't expected was the tall figure in front of him with one ghostly pale hand on a rather sizeable and menacing scythe. "My daughter needs help; she's very sick." The farmer replied, shivering a bit but standing his ground. "Anything you can do to help would be greatly appreciated. I'll do anything, just help my daughter." The man asked, going to his knees.

Death gave a little cough and said now in a voice much closer to her own, if still very echoey, "I'll see what I can do, but know that everything has a price, and that price may be more than you are willing to pay…" She trailed off. She really didn't want to make this man fear her, but if people thought they could get one over on Death, then the cycle would never be safe, and she would never have time for her gardening. Perhaps, this farmer could give her some new seeds for her garden. She hadn't tried growing food crops before; it could be fun.

"Show me to the child, and leave me with her for three days. We shall see what I can do to aid her in that time. Should she expire peacefully in that time, I will ask for a concession for easing her way to the next. Should she remain on this coil, I shall ask nothing more of you than a handful of seed for my fields, for no pain is greater than being subjected to LIFE's whims. And should she die in pain similar to or greater than her current state, I shall owe you a single boon, irrelated to the cycle of life and death, for none should tamper with such a delicate balance, not even divine beings such as myself." Death offered, extending a cold, pale hand towards the man. It was thinner and more gangly than her usual form, but she could change that while she tended to the girl. "As one final caveat, I shall let you visit your daughter for the witching hour each night. Should you look upon my face without my cloak all close to you will drop where you stand, do not let hubris steal your happiness." As the man grasped her hand to shake on the deal, a blaze of blue hellfire, the same color as her eyes, burst up about them, enclosing them in a dome.

"The deal has been struck, and an accord has been reached. Let us not look back upon this date with despair but with eternal joy.

Alimaon," Death stated, closing the magic which would seal the deal. Now she couldn't go back on the accord any more than this random farmer could. It was her insurance if her parents or siblings came calling for her at this time.

* * *

The girl was worse than Death thought she might be. She was pale and sweating and crying with some form of pain in each of her limbs. Death sighed, swept her hand towards the only door to the room to close and lock it, then changed into her usual form. The cloak hung itself on the small, rusted nail on the back of the door, the scythe she had been holding floated to rest beside the door propped against the wall, and her hair returned to its standard auburn with raven feathers woven into the locks at random intervals. Her body filled out again to an average female build, and she lost the foot she had gained. That done, she pulled up a stool by her charge's bed and got to work. First, she cast a spell that numbed the child's physical pain. The girl's tears dried up, and she looked to be sleeping now. Death then conjured a basin of warm water and a towel and went to work swabbing the girl's head.

At about noon on the first day, the girl woke up. Death learned her name was Frida. She was turning thirteen the day the deal expired and relatively small for her age. Death introduced herself as Thana and went back to swabbing the girl's head. The girl's fever had lowered significantly, but she was still weak and clammy. Death heaved a great sigh and conjured the girl some broth to drink. Frida seemed an extremely inquisitive child, despite her infirmity, asking about Death in more detail than most of the souls Death had tended to in the past. Given most of them had already escaped LIFE's clutches and were merely using her as a traveling companion to the next, wherever that may be, they tended to be boring conversationalists.

On the other hand, Frida asked about Death's hobbies, to which she got an answer of 'Gardening,' she asked why Death was there, 'to watch over you, and hopefully give you some comfort in this painful time' was the response. All and sundry of banal topics were discussed that first day until the girl had passed into SLEEP's hands for the night. Death donned her cloak and allowed the parents in as the moon reached its peak. She exited the room and allowed them the solace of knowing that their child was alive and doing better before she gently shooed them out of the room and regained her vigil.

The second day the girl asked for stories, so Death gave them. Death told stories of love and loss, pain, and redemption. She painted images of Kings, Queens, Knights, and Ladies in her mind. She told stories of her family, her parents, EXISTENCE and ABSENCE, her cruel brother, LIFE, and many more of her family. But overall, she talked about her garden. She gave Frida dreams of the large wisteria tree that overshadowed a pond at the edge of the plot, of the many flowers she cultivated from seed each season, and of the beauty that she tended to in that waystation of souls. The stories enthralled the girl. Death worried about her own words, but she would never lie nor hold back, for Death was unable to give anyone a partial truth. Frida would find beauty elsewhere on earth should she look. Death knew that LIFE let beauty into his works to ensnare more mortals into entertaining his games, even if the beauty of the higher realms and the next were favorably compared to those of this dirt clod with which LIFE played.

That night when Frida's parents viewed their daughter, she seemed deep in thought, almost as if making a decision, but she had been gaining her color back, even if she was now much more flushed than usual and still sweaty and clammy. They left the room without even looking in Death's direction.

The last day came, and the girl asked about Death herself, personal questions, things that no one knew other than the EXISTANCE and ABSENCE from whence she had been birthed. She divulged her secrets to this, to her, girl, as she attempted to weaken ILLNESS'S hold on Frida's small body. And in that time, Death recognized a kindred spirit. She asked the girl if this was an often occurrence. The child responded that it had occurred to this severity twice before in her young life. Each time the priests her father brought her to declared that she wouldn't make it, and twice before, she had pulled through due to them helping her despite their declarations. This time had been worse, however, and the priests decided she wasn't worth the effort. So she had been left to die, wracked with aches and burning in her own body. Her father had gone out searching to find someone to help, and he had come upon Death. As she had responded, Death felt a connection take hold, a connection which her siblings had talked about with rapture and despair. Death had found her first CHOSEN. For whom else but those who had experienced the pains of LIFE could understand the woes of DEATH? Who else could sympathize with she who was the cessation of LIFE but one who had met the threshold so many times? So, when Frida asked, "Thana, can you stay?" It almost broke Death to respond, "No, I have a garden to tend to, and grass to reap. So much work and so little time to do it." That sadness shattered when the girl responded, "Could I help? Would you want my help? I don't know as much as you; I haven't met kings, knights, or anyone more majestic than you. But, I know gardens and plants. I could help."

Death felt the need to make sure Frida understood the weight of her query, "I, go by many names as you know, but my main one is and will always be DEATH," the word echoed. The air shivered, "If you go with me, you may not see your family again, if you become my CHOSEN, you will be with me in my garden, as I go soul collecting, you will become almost a part of me. And to do that, you need to pass into my arms. Are you sure that is what you wish?" Death was hopeful, but at the same time, she was a realist. Very few would give up their earthly connections to spend eternity with DEATH. It was almost unthinkable that she would agree. But low and behold, Frida responded, "I would follow you anywhere. Nowhere, not even my mother's arms have brought the comfort your mere words have to me. You have spent the time you could have spent tending your beloved garden, mopping my brow, and tending me. I would have already been in your arms had you not come to my side. So what would have been forced upon me, I now do willingly." And she jumped into the arms of DEATH without another thought.

Death breathed in, and the girl's body chilled, already losing the warmth that it had previously held. And in front of Death, wearing a similar cloak to Death's was Frida, her form now her mental age, between eighteen and twenty. The same age that Death's form usually took. A pale grey mist surrounded her body, showing that she was not connected to her physical form anymore but rather connected to a piece of Death's being. A new representation, a new lesser concept, finally given form. Her eyes, once a hazel green, were now a striking emerald. Her hair that had been a dirty blond color, seemingly always matted with sweat and the rubbing of her pillow, was now shiny and clean, falling in waves. She was still Frida in that she was still the girl that DEATH had been healing and tending to, but now she was more. She was the way she had passed; she was now a representation of PEACEFUL DEATH, the concept to combat the hand of Suffering during one's last. And DEATH loved her for it. But before they could again hug and go away back to Death's garden, the girl's parents entered the room, having heard the bed shift. And they saw the face of Death. It was not immediate, for the pact had already been fulfilled. But death's magic curled up, ready to pounce on these mortals who would interrupt a moment with Death's first chosen at the first opportunity. They saw the girl, dead in Death's arms after seeming so lively the previous night, and Kaarle left as the mother began crying. Death gently left her CHOSEN's prior shell in the mother's arms, and followed the father, Frida floating close behind, that she might not be lost, but not before gently kissing her mother goodbye for the second to last time. For she would come again, when her partner came for her mother at her mother's passing, and at that time Frida herself would lead her mother to the next before returning to what would become her closest confidant, a lover if concepts had needed such a thing.

When Frida finally caught up to Death, she was in the grip of Frida's father. He was angry. Furious. For Death had finally named her concession, Frida's choice. She was willing to give up any gift she could pull from the man, so long as he respected that it was Frida's choice to jump into Death's arms, to pass peacefully and become Death's partner for eternity. Instead, he attacked, gripping his hands about Death's neck in a futile attempt to destroy her.

Frida looked around and saw the Massive Scythe that her Thana had propped next to her all the time. She made up her mind. "You cannot kill that which already is part of Death," Frida whispered almost to herself before in one clean stroke she grasped her friend's large scythe and reaped her father's soul from his body, sending it on to the next without any guidance from Death. Death was disheartened in the fact that he passed angry rather than relieved in his daughter's happiness. But her sadness vanished when she saw Frida watching clasping the large scythe to her breast nervously like she was worried that Death would yell at her for her action. Death just held out her hand to her CHOSEN and with a silent smile led her away to Death's corner of the higher plane. To her garden where the two still tend to Death's plants even now. Happy in their togetherness, sharing stories that they have both heard thousands or billions of times, purely to listen to the other's voice filling in the forgotten details as they replanted the same flowers for the trillionth time. In this manner the two lived a happy existence until the end of TIME.


	3. Above The Battlefield: The Epic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Atlantis didn't sink...  
> Nor did it collapse,  
> nor did it disperse...

# The Epic:

Sing, O' Spirit of Fate,

Of your cunning plots, sing.

Of the doom of Atlantis

And of hubris' foley, I plead, sing.

Speak, Lady Fate, your fickle whims.

Of Illness and Anarchy, speak.

Of your ill designs for royal blood, speak.

I entreat, O' Weaver of Destiny,

pontificate on the folly of Atlas

And the hubris of kings before gods,

Thinking the weaver of strings but a broodmare.

And join in the thrum of Destruction's marching tune,

That none shall again endure

The destiny of the doomed once-emperor…

~Translated excerpt from a lost Epic of Homer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It simply ceased to be...


	4. Above The Battlefield: A Goddess Eye View

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Things don't simply disappear, they are generally disappeared...

# A Goddess's Eye View:

Existence floated above the battlefield and sighed. Absence was at it again, flowing from one soldier to the next, their daughter and her partner chasing after him trying to keep up with his mordent trek. She knew this had to happen. The emperor of these people had made a deal with Fate. An ill-thought-out action for anyone, but especially when it was a bet. Considering that she was born from Time's fervent want to win a bet between Them and Time's twin, Space, Fate was the mistress of gambling. She was often called upon as Lady Luck to aid a gambler's task, despite Luck being an entirely separate concept, Existence's Niece through Space's child, Chaos (Entropy on their bad days). So, one can assume from this that it was ill-conceived of Emperor Atlas to bet Fate herself that she couldn't destroy his empire so long as he lived. Should he die before his kingdom, Fate would have to protect the said empire and bear his son an heir.

In all her vindictive glory, Fate had accepted and immediately turned to Life and his friend Illness. They set a great, infectious plague upon the empire. This pulled Death out of her garden to deal with the matter personally. The poor girl had worked overtime, rushing from house to house, outstripping Illness to choke out the disease.

Fate was not deterred. She forced an old woman to speak a prophecy of doom in a public square to frighten the people out of the cities. Anarchy had a field day for a few years until Order had been called in by Society to pull Them away.

Fate had been so done by then that she turned to her Uncle, asking him to exercise his lesser concept, Destruction. When he had heard the deal's consequences, he had immediately gone on a rampage, Causing this battle and the subsequent destruction. For while it was Fate's fault that she was in this mess, no one would be allowed to make captive Absence's family, for as the Romans would later say: Nemo sanae fuerint vincti. No one sane binds them.

It went without saying that Existence was disappointed. When she conceived of this empire and fostered the spark of its being, she was enthralled by its potential. "Don’t get invested, their only humans,” Absence had warned, “They’ll find their way to Death and eventually me if given half a chance. Hubris is an abnormally strong motivator.” But she had scoffed. This civilization was so advanced and enlightened compared to its neighbors. There was such a low chance they would fail. And yet, they had, and spectacularly at that. They had very much disappointed her.

Oh, they had proven resilient, lasting the plots of her recalcitrant son and grandson and the whims of her nibling’s delirious rampage. But there was no way that they would survive her husband’s anger. When Absence cast his eye upon something in irritation, it ceased in short order and in such completion that they couldn't be revived. And even if she had felt like going against Absence in one of his snit fits, the attempt at capturing Fate in a loveless relationship was enough to stop that dead cold. If there was one thing that every concept in existence, save a few depraved and shunned ones, valued it was freedom. And so marched Destruction to liberate his niece from her own hubris. As he stormed his way towards the once-emperor's palace, he brushed past many a man and each man keeled over without cause, his soul ripped from his being by a mere bump of the shoulder. With each step, Absence took as Destruction, more and more of the culture was violently torn from the books of Time. With each breath, the men on the battlefield shuddered as their families were subsumed by their enemy’s armies. His presence would wipe this empire from the mortal planes before he personally came for their King.

She would allow this civilization to exist in myth if only to provide a cautionary tale for the next one. But Story would be their only place of being. She sighed once more and turned away. She looked towards a new group of cities growing from Atlantean ashes. Greece would be better. It had to be…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not just mortals are susceptible to Hubris, they just suffer the punishment for both party's pride.

**Author's Note:**

> *This is my personal mythos that has been created while writing "The Fires of a Vengeful Goddess". Because I want to segregate this work from Miraculous Ladybug as much as possible, while the characterization in the myths that are given here are applicable to the characters in Fires, the events of Fires and a large amount of the history of Fires are not applicable to this story unless directly stated. The miraculous stones do not exist in the timeline these myths do, and the characters of Miraculous Ladybug will not appear either. There may be another story that appears in this series that relates to stories in the Miraculous Ladybug universe of Fires, but it is not this story.*


End file.
